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…or should I say, thanks Mom for having sex with Dad?

But wait – I’m getting ahead of myself here…

A few days before Christmas back in ’38,  little Margot was born in Germany  to Ruth and Fritz. The first of six children born during, and post World War II, little Margot did not have an easy life. But my brother Michael and I are so glad she came to be; in spite of the gross and disturbing act she would later commit with Heinz.

I’ll get to that later.

In ’59  the not-so-little-anymore Margot  married Heinz…

My parents on their wedding day (a photo of a photo)

My parents on their wedding day in Berlin, Germany  (a photo of a photo)

…and one year later they immigrated, or as we like to say in our family  (ACHTUNG – SIE VERLASSEN JETZT WEST BERLIN)  to Montreal, Quebec, Canada  with twenty odd bucks in their pocket to start a new life as Canadians eh.

Below is what they looked like as Canadians.

My Parents 1960

Sometime in the spring, around May of ‘62,  Margot had sex with Heinz and this somewhat disturbing act (at least to me, I’m sure they liked it alright)  led to the birth of little Diana (me)  on Valentine’s Day back in ’63.

Yup, that’s right, I’m a LOVE child!

Ever since that day Margot  has been known as Mom,  therefore she is qualified to be the beneficiary of Mother’s Day greetings.  You would think Margot A.K.A Mom  had learned her lesson. But no, she had sex with Heinz A.K.A Dad AGAIN  in the fall, around September of 63!  Doubly  disturbing (both to Michael and I, I’m sure they liked it alright – why else would they do it AGAIN?!!)  As a result, in June of ‘64  on a not-so-notable  day, (as in not Valentine’s Day or Easter or even Groundhog Day)  Michael was born, wrecking all possibilities for Diana to grow up in a pampered  and spoiled  way, like a princess  who is continually catered to  and pampered (oh I already said pampered – it’s still a raw subject for me)

Ohh-h but don’t you worry I got my revenge by giving Mom many a I-can’t-believe-anyone-in-their-right-mind-would-eat-that  Mother’s Day breakfasts in bed and hordes of macaroni art.  In later years my always-tough-you-can’t-get-me-to-break  Dad couldn’t just stand by and witness these things anymore, so he began the annual hey-it’s-Mother’s Day-we’re-going-out-to-the-Chinese-restaurant-day  tradition.

Anyway, what I really want to say is Happy Mother’s Day Mom!

Thanks for all the times you were there for us.

Thanks for every band-aid on every scraped knee.

For every bobo you kissed.

For teaching us how to clean our rooms every freakin’ Saturday over and over and over again until we got it right.

I love you!



p.s. I googled kissing bobos as I wasn’t sure on the spelling

and it suggested kissing boobs

which I chose to totally disregard.